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On days like these, the rebel trees go dancing,

stripping leaves into a bitter-wet wind.

They clamber half-clad with slick drops on their skin

into bartender’s hands enchanting.

Over sunlight he’s casting calloused gunmetal palms,

masking the tang of cheap swill;

he grins, chews the granulated mist.

He pours a drink for the willow on the hill.

What clear pill does she ease

down her loose-corset branches?

She wonders once before

lucid greens start seething out of it.

The rainy dayclub is squeezing

sound out of the stillness;

drugs flick their tongues

in forgotten cups until they brim.

They ripple with reflections of limbs whittled.

The dancers giggle as they sweat.

They kiss and forget as they ride

a jagged sky with blurred edges.

Until they vomit in the dripping hedges

and pray that the sun would catch them.


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